


The Apocalypse Respects No Secrets

by Flyboyfan23



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apocalypse, Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Scars, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyboyfan23/pseuds/Flyboyfan23
Summary: When the dead begin to walk, those who survive band together. Personal boundaries shrink, dictated by necessity, and secrets are discovered whether voluntarily or not. No one is as private as Daryl Dixon and yet his secrets are perhaps the hardest to hide. Mental scars can be hidden, physical scars prove more difficult. Mentions past child abuse, kinda angsty.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So I'm really stuck on a Walking Dead thing. The angst is just so strong and palpable that I find it so easy to latch onto an idea and run with it. This will be a string of one-shots without a continuing plot. Each chapter will center around the moment where each character sees Daryl's scars. I know he's not one to flaunt them, which makes this all the more interesting to write. I think, in the end, everyone would/will have seen or at least gathered that Daryl did not have the most stellar of childhoods, after all secrets are hard to keep when you don't spend every waking moment with a group and impossible when you do.
> 
> This kinda follows allow with my other TWD fic The Family Album but it isn't required at all to read that one to understand each chapter. I will be trying to post each chapter in time-line order so please be patient as I figure out how each character will fall. 
> 
> Anyways, this fic has mention of past child abuse, so be warned and also, I don't own the Walking Dead.

The apocalypse is a funny thing. It offers a large amount of solitude. When most of the world has turned into a mindless horde of flesh eating monsters that tends to happen, and yet, it quickly strips the few surviving people of their privacy. With the numbers of the living dwindling everyday, everyone longs for fellowship, for camaraderie. When the survivors do find each other, very rarely are they separated by choice. 

The end of the world was quick to prove two things to be true: There is strength in numbers and Man is a social creature. 

Once groups were formed, the main focus was survival. They searched for protection, from the dead and the living. For safe havens with food, water, and shelter but such places often led to close quarters. Privacy became non-existent and a person's secrets were soon put on display for all to see. Despite this, such revelations were rarely discussed. The focus was upon endurance and continuing onward. 

At the end of the world, no one's secrets were safe and everyone's secret would come to light as long as you lived long enough, and that included Daryl Dixon.


	2. Glenn Rhee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glenn: Season one: After the change but before Rick finds the Atlanta group. 
> 
> Unfortunately, these interactions are proving to be a bit short mainly because I still would like to try and sew this into the actual time line as smoothly as I can. I'm avoiding deep, heart-to-heart reveals that would lead to too many changes in character relationships and bring about OOCness..as much as I can, that is. 
> 
> Hope it doesn't drive any of you too crazy. Enjoy and please remember to review at the end!!

GLENN RHEE: Season One- After the change but before Rick finds the group in Atlanta.

Glenn was the very first person to have seen the scars upon Daryl's back, just as he was the first person to know of Lori's pregnancy and of the walkers in the barn. The young, Asian man was almost always the first to know everything and it was a fact he wasn't too sure he was okay with. The discovery had been made the very first time he had even met Daryl, that very first day within their camp just outside of Atlanta. 

Life in the woods was not something anyone of the Atlanta group was prepared for. Okay, so maybe a few had gone camping once or twice. Dale had gone RVing almost every summer of his life as a child and had planned on doing the same with his wife after retirement but that didn't prepare you to survive in the wild, not by a long shot. 

So it came as no surprise that the group was living off of the very meager supplies they had managed to collect. Canned foods and beef jerky, added to the occasional fish Andrea and Amy were able to catch did not leave much to fill their empty stomachs. 

Which also meant that when Merle and Daryl burst through the trees one morning, nearly getting themselves shot by a rather nervous Jim, the thought of adding two more mouths to feed was anything but intriguing. All noise in the camp, the rustling of clothes and the soft clanking of cooking pots, ceased as everyone's attention turned to the sudden arrival of the newcomers. The women quickly gathered their children, placing themselves between them and yet another threat in this new world, while the men had just as quickly retrieved their nearby weapons. The gasps and shouts echoed through the camp, drawing more people who had yet to be alerted to the disturbance, from their tents. 

That devious, snake-like grin of Merle's was plastered all over his face as he looked around, attempting to charm these new strangers with his brilliant smile. His own gun, a sawed-off shotgun, was leaning on his shoulder though his finger was near the trigger, twitching as he itched to fire off a round- mainly because he loved the chaos it would ensure, despite how counter-productive it would be.

“Hey, lil brother, looks like we found ourselves a real party.” He almost crooned in his raspy voice. 

Daryl said nothing as he walked through the thick trees, his crossbow slung over his back and an apathetic expression on his face. A handful of squirrels swung from his belt, waiting to be skinned and cooked. The younger of the two men scanned the gathering of people with narrowed blue eyes, quickly taking note of each and every weapon that was pointed their direction as well as taking stock of each person who held the trigger of said weapons. Most were shaky, but one, the tall man with curly brown hair and a square jaw line, held his pistol steady, lined up directly with his brother's heart. Shane's demeanor screamed 'cop'. 

“Who are you.” Shane demanded, his tone cold and sharp. His brown eyes were hard, prepared to do whatever it took to keep the people around him safe, his thoughts mainly upon Lori and Carl. 

“Aww, man. I didn' come through wavin' my gun. So's why don' ya put that thing down and we can talk all civilized like.” Merle requested, the smile still present, though it did not reach his eyes. 

The only answer Shane offered, was to tighten his fingers around his pistol and adjusting his aim to that of Merle's head. 

“Alright, alright.” Large, callused hands were raised, palms facing outward. “Names Merle, this is my brother, Daryl.”

A pregnant pause lay in the air, filled only by the soft chirping of birds and the wind as it stirred the trees surrounding them. Gun sights were not lowered and no names were offered. 

“What about you, girlie? Got a name?” Merle asked as he peered around the group, his eyes settling upon Amy. Andrea stood next to her sister, stepping forward slightly as her upraised hands shook, the barrel of her father's gun aimed his way, though Merle knew her aim was too high and would never meet it's target. 

Shane still did not reply, glaring at the pair which Daryl answered in kind. 

“Look, now.” Merle attempted to reason, seeing that the group was not as trusting as he had hoped them to be. “We're not looking for any trouble. We're jus' lookin' for a some help, strength in numbers, ya know?” 

Merle request still appeared to be falling on deaf ears, so he changed tactics. “Ya'll hungry? My lil brother's a good shot wit that bow of his. We can help wit the hunting and any supply runs ya need ta take-”

Shane rolls his eyes, before snapping at the redneck “Shut up.” He then turns towards Glenn and T-Dog, nodding towards the pair. “Frisk 'em down. Take away their weapons.” 

“Nah, man. No need fer that.” Merle protested, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “Ya'll gonna leave us helpless with those things wanderin' 'round.” 

No one answered him and T-dog walked over immediately, towards Merle. A clear look of disgust crossed the older brother's face though he held his tongue, knowing it best to stay on these peoples' good sides until they accepted them into the group..until it was time to rob them blind. 

Glenn approached Daryl, his gaze unsure as he examined the man. His short hair was greasy, but who's wasn't now-a-days, the same could be said about his clothes and he reeked of blood and sweat. Glenn was not sure if it was the man or the dead animals that he had at his side. Reaching up, he relieved the man of the wicked-looking crossbow that he had held against his shoulder, also removing the handful of arrows that were sticking out of the bag he carried. Rips and stains in the coarse fabric was much more detailed now that Glenn was up close and personal, as was the redneck's brilliant blue eyes. The piercing orbs, narrowed into a cold glare stopped Glenn for a moment, which was only broken as Shane spoke. 

“Frisk him, Glenn.” 

Glenn nodded, the bill of his faded baseball cap moving up and down with the rest of his head. Hesitating only minutely, the former pizza delivery boy began to pat Daryl down. His hands gliding over the fabric to find any hidden weapons. In his search, he moved around his subject until his hands met a large lump at the small of his back. Peeling up the edge of the shirt, Glenn revealed a sleek, black pistol tucked into his waistband...and a whole lot of scars. Large thick lines of discolored flesh, slightly raised marred the redneck's lower back. The discovery left Glenn completely dumbstruck, his doe brown eyes trapped upon the sight. 

Glenn had grown up privileged..not 'super rich car for his birthday and his every whim catered for' privileged but he had had a loving, doting mother and an equally loving and hard working father. His parents had ensured his every need was met in his youth and had always been encouraging and supportive to him even into adulthood. The dark and morbid reality of something so ugly as that of child abuse had not and was not a fore-running thought he held in his mind.

But here it was, staring him straight in the face: a very clear indicator that the world as it was now, with flesh-eating creatures in every shadow was not all that different from the time before. Each had played host to it's monsters. The difference was that the monsters of today did not hide in plain sight and did not look like everyone else...the smell alone gave them away. 

“Sorry, china-boy, I don' swing tha' way.” A low gruff voice broke Glenn from his thoughts. Blinking, it took a moment for him to realize that the man before him had spoken. He then remembered that he still had the man's shirt in one hand, holding it up, and was staring at Daryl's back. 

Swallowing quickly, Glenn removed the gun and stood quickly. “I'm Korean.” He muttered, mainly to have someway to reply to the redneck, while avoiding any eye contact as his cheeks reddened. 

Walking back up to Shane to stand beside him, Glenn turned back around. He tried to keep his focus on the rest of the encounter with the pair of brothers, on Shane's decision to allow them to stay for the time being, or on the way Merle appeared to be taking much too much joy as he looked around, his gaze lingering on a few of the women present. Glenn's attention was only upon the younger brother, on how he stood there, trying to remained tough and collected as he was surrounded by strangers. Glenn could see how his right hand twitched slightly, clearly at a loss now that his crossbow was out of reach. There was something about him, something very different than his brother. The way he held himself, the way he observed every movement, the way he positioned his feet in a solid stance. All these mannerisms, for some reason that he didn't truly understand, urged Glenn to trust him...but definitely not his brother. He was ready, poised to defend his brother's back at a moment's notice, and someone with that level of loyalty was a strong asset in the world today. 

“Alright, bet y'all are sick of ole beans in a can.” Merle exclaimed happily, his sandpaper-like voice reaching a pitch high enough to be heard throughout the camp. “How bout we cook up some nice, hot squirrel, jus' like nana used ta make?” He asked, holding an arm out towards Daryl, who shrugged off his string of the furry creatures and handed in to Merle. 

“What does squirrel taste like?” Carl asked, he and Lori having had approached once the weapons had been safely stowed away. His eyes were bright with curiosity and wonder about the two newcomers to their group, especially if they promised something other than canned food. 

“Chicken-” Was Shane's sarcastic answer, ruffling the boy's hair.


	3. Dale Horvath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dale: Season two: between Save the Last One and before Chupacabra (Daryl has not been hurt yet). 
> 
> Okay, not as sure about this one. Kinda ramble-y but I have re-watched quite a few early episodes for this and I kinda think this might be what goes on inside Dale's head. The man has a fiery temper, strong sense of right and wrong, and a deep love for his late wife (plus fantastic headwear). 
> 
> Don’t forget to review at the end please!

DALE HORVATH: Season Two- between ‘Save the Last One’ and before ‘Chupacabra’

Dale was a man of words. He was a man of ponderous thought but somethings are best left unsaid and some sights are left unseen. The elderly man had a strong moral compass, always had and a short-fused righteous temper. With such a strong feeling of right and wrong, he hadn't made the much money as a car salesman, too concerned with matching the car to the buyer than selling the most expensive vehicle, but he had been content. Working the long, unforgiving hours of retail before coming home to his wonderful, loving wife, Erma, each night. He treasured those memories, the memories before the cancer. Of peaceful nights on the front porch, of mornings curled up together on the sofa, on every single moment he had had with her. As much as Dale missed his wife, her absence a terrible ache within his heart, he was very, so very thankful that Erma was not there to see the world as it was now. She did not have to witness the death and suffering. 

Each day, the first thing Dale would do was to place his tattered and torn fisherman's hat upon his head. Erma had hated the thing with a passion, claiming that it made his already large eyebrows as the more bushy, and yet she had always had it ready near his bedside every morning with his favorite Hawaiian shirt. Small holes dotted the fabric where angler's hooks had once hung. It was bleached by the sun and stained from sweat, but it was one of the very few things he still had of his wife, and that made it precious. 

Reaching up, Dale removed the bucket hat to run his other hand through his thin hair. He was sitting at the wheel of his RV, simply waiting what was to come next. Sophia was missing, had been for too long. 

The world was too dangerous for someone as young as her to survive on her own. Death was around every corner, waiting for it's moment to strike and yet, Dale, wasn't sure that was all that different from before. Death was a fact, it had always been there, unseen. It had acted quickly, it had acted slowly. Through disease and natural disaster, through mishap and mayhem. The only difference was that now, after the change, it had taken on a more active role. Death now inhabited the corpses, no longer were they permitted their endless rest. Death had become greedy and lost patience. But still he came everyday, with Carol, hoping and praying that some miracle would find them. 

A cough broke through Dale's morbid thoughts, followed by a soft sob. Twisting backwards, he could see Carol in the rear of the cabin. She had cried herself into a fitful sleep, her tears not stopping even then. They stained her cheeks and ran down her nose to wet a small spot in the sheets underneath her face. Dark shadows hung under his eyes and her skin was pale. The mother had aged years over a short few days, stress and heartbreak taking their toll upon her body. 

Dale was unsure how much more the woman could take but he reminded himself that she was strong, even if she did not know it herself. 

Though he was normally up on the roof as look out, the heat had gotten to him, driving inside the camper to take refuge in it's shade. So, here he sat, slouched in the driver's seat as he scanned the highway and fields beyond, not expecting to see anything and yet hoping that the small figure of a living, breathing little girl would make a miraculous appearance. 

Movement outside the RV caught Dale's attention. He sat up a little straighter, squinting out into the late afternoon sun. A silhouette was walking towards them, darkened against the bright rays of light behind it. Even at such a distance, Daryl could tell that the person was no longer alive. The gait was staggered and stumbling, the drunken walk of the undead. A single wandering straggler. Cold fear flooded Dale's gut despite the decent space still between them. He supposed it always would, no matter how controlled the environment. The threat of being eaten alive was, after all, never something a person would just become okay with. 

Dale reached forward to retrieve the small handgun that sat upon the dashboard in front of him. His fingers deftly checked that the weapon was fully loaded and that the safety was firmly in place. A small bittersweet smirk met his lips for a very brief second. If only his beloved Erma could have seen him now. She had always abhorred violence, especially guns, and would grow rather...agitated whenever Dale had brought out his own pistol for routine maintenance. Content that he was prepared, if for any reason the walker changed course in their direction, Dale turned his attention back onto the highway. 

He watched as the creature came closer and closer. The former salesman's gray eyes strained against the sun and he was so focused that Dale failed to notice the second figure that appeared at the doorway of the RV. 

The sudden thud on the plastic and metal door startled Dale so badly that he nearly jumped from his chair. He instantly leveled the sight of the barrel with the door but had the presence of mind not to depress the trigger. 

At the door, a low growl echoed from outside the vehicle. The walker was just outside, looking at him through the window of plexiglass. It's mouth was opening and closing, teeth clacking together, as though it were already chewing upon his flesh. It's eyes were dead, pale white, and full of hunger. Quiet, wheezing sounds emanated from it's throat, which struck Dale as odd. Looking closer, a large, bloody gaping hole could be seen at the creature's throat, deep enough to show that it's vocal cords had been severed. If it was at all possible, the harsh silence was more ominous and terrifying than their usual snarls. Raising one arm, it began to try and claw it's way through the door, running it's mouth along the barrier too. The rotting flesh, saliva, and blood smeared the window, obscuring Dale's view slightly. 

Swallowing, as if to rid himself of his nerves, Dale stood, trying to ignore his shaky knees. Though he had a few walker kills under his belt, he was never able to forget the fact that these..things had once been human. It was not something he took any pride in but it was necessary. 

The walker was covered nearly head to toe in mud and blood. It's clothes were ragged and worn, one arm was missing, completely torn off. Patches of hair were missing, sections of scalp peeled completely away, revealing bone. It was a grotesque picture to behold. 

Taking a small step forward, Dale glanced to his right, checking to see that Carol was still asleep, whimpering softly. He took a deep breath, and then another. His hand trembling very minutely as he reached for the doorknob. The walker grew more restless and animated as he drew nearer. Aged fingers flexed against the latch but just as he was about to open the barrier between him and the terror outside, a knife was impaled through the back of the walker's skull. Dark red blood painted the window in front of him. Despite the blow, the creature was still snarling. The steel blade withdrew, before plunging violently back again and again. Pieces of brain and skull splattered the side of the RV. 

With a final, quiet groan, it crumpled to the pavement below and a sweaty, tanned Daryl stepped into view. His pale shirt was stained with fresh blood, covering him from collar to hem. His crossbow was strapped across his back and his usual scowl was plastered upon his face. 

Dale breathed a huge sigh of relief, smirking as his gray eyes met with the redneck's blue ones and a humorless laugh escaped his lips. His smile was not met in kind, but instead Daryl gave him a quick nod, checking to be sure that he was okay.

“She 'sleep?” He asked, his voice gruff as he nodded his head towards the back of the RV where Carol had been when he had left. 

“She is.” Dale replied, quietly as though he suddenly remembered to be quiet himself. “Did you find anything?”

“Nah, just a lot o' nothin'. Gonna clear this up. Don' want her seein' it.” The man muttered, leaning down and grabbing one of the walker's ankles. A dark ruby smear streaked the pavement as the body was dragged heavily towards the side of the road. Dale watched as the redneck rolled the walker down the slope of the grassy ditch, taking care to make it land behind one of the cars. It was touching, though Dale knew to never mention it to the man, how Daryl took such precautions to hide the carnage.

Attempted to hide the proof of danger from Carol. It was just a reminder of everything little Sophia was up against out there. 

Daryl's eyes were locked on the body as it rolled, it's remaining limps flopping around at random angles and he remained there, staring down into the ditch for a moment, as though he expected into to jump up at him once again. When it didn't, he glanced down at his shirt, pinching the fabric between his fingers and examining the new stain. 

Knowing not to eavesdrop but being far too curious, Dale watched in the RV's side mirror as the man approached the right side of the vehicle where a plastic water bottle sat. His back was turned to the mirror as he removed his shirt. Daryl leaned down and picked up the water but Dale did notice. He also did notice as the redneck unscrewed the cap and poured the liquid down onto the shirt in his other hand. The clear water soon flowed a light pink, washing the blood away as best he could. 

Instead, a deep, righteous anger flooded through Dale. A storm raged within his deep gray eyes as he attempted to comprehend the sight before him that he could not never unsee. Dale possessed a strong sense of justice, one that was stirred into a burning fury with the smallest of provocation and this, this always created the strongest of emotions within the salesman. There was nothing more selfish and cowardly than to treat a child the way that Daryl clearly had been. 

Dale had had a very, very difficult time holding his tongue back when Ed had still been alive. The disgusting man had never been all that quiet as he hurled his insults towards Carol and the only thing that had stayed the salesman's fury had been the lack of marks upon Carol and Sophia's tender skin. He had attempted to speak with both Sophia and Carol about it but he had been stonewalled every time until he gave up, resigning himself to help where he could, as best he could. 

Such an act, against the smallest and most helpless people in the world, sickened Dale to no end and yet he knew that anything said to Daryl now, would not only not changed anything but it also would alienate the quiet man further. So, he kept his mouth shut as Daryl slipped the now wet shirt back over his head and used the rest of the bottle to wash away some of the splattered mess from the side of the RV and the asphalt. 

“Thank you, Daryl, for taking care of the walker.” Dale said, swallowing everything he wanted to say, as the redneck entered the camper. He had a theory now, some form of understanding into the motivation that Daryl had to drive him to risk so much for the little girl. Dale had seen it somewhat even in the camp before Rick had appeared. Daryl and Merle had stayed to themselves mostly, helping the group here and there and often disappearing into the woods, only to appeared again with squirrels or rabbit. Merle had been gruff and harsh but Daryl had shown some signs of compassion...but only to the children, especially to Sophia. He was awkward and hesitant but was always gentle with her, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit, a shared horror. It was a guess, a theory, but one that would never be confirmed. It was not one that ever needed to be spoken aloud.

Daryl just grunted as he shuffled over to the table, not seeming to notice as a rather impressive collection of dirt fell from his crossbow as he set it on the table. 

Table manners may have been lacking but the shy man had a good, caring heart as much that he tried to hide from everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for Dale. Please review and let me know how I'm doing!


	4. Maggie Greene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie Greene: Between Season Three and Four
> 
> This one got kinda long because I had to set up the scene a bit more but the longer the better right? This one isn’t as angsty, but I will try and get more in next time.

MAGGIE GREENE- Between Seasons Three and Four; The group have run from the farm and have yet to find the prison. 

The end of the world stunk. 

Figuratively, yes, but right now it was the very literal sense that concerned Maggie. Months had passed since the walkers had overrun her home. That gorgeous country farm that, despite what she sometimes said, she had always pictured herself someday growing old on that expanse of land. Inheriting it from her father, like he had always planned. Perhaps she should tell him that their future plans had not differed as much as he may have believed.

Now, though, everything was different. Everything had changed. 

Now she was stuck in the back of a van, sandwiched between Hershel and Glenn. Beth and Carl were sitting in the middle seats with a ragged collection of the groups supplies between them. Worn thin backpacks and an odd assortment of weapons. Somewhere deep within Maggie, her protective instinct told her it was irresponsible to keep such dangerous tools stored beside the youngest members of their groups before she remembered that the world was full of dead things...very dangerous dead things, and Beth and Carl had both been trained. 

Rick was driving and Lori was laying in the front seat. Her seat was reclined to the point that her head was nearly laying within Beth's lap, allowing the young teen's fingers to softly card through her dark locks, gently tugging out the tangles. 

The vehicles that they had escaped the farm house in had broken down a few days prior and they had been forced to find this van, a soccer mom minivan if Maggie had ever seen one. There had even been an actual soccer ball in the trunk before T-Dog had tossed it out to clamor in himself, as there were not enough seats for everyone. He was currently crammed in the small space, and though the seating itself was uncomfortable, Maggie could not help but find herself a bit envious with the leg room he had back there. 

Sweat beaded upon everyone's skin, dirt and blood marred their flesh and stained their clothes. The weather had grown unseasonably warm for spring the last few days and they had, of course, found a van in which only one of the windows even opened, sticking half way. The fresh air from that window was only the merest of whispers once it reached them there in the back. 

It left her very, very jealous of Daryl and Carol who were currently perched out on the redneck's motorcycle. They had plenty of fresh air out there. 

Leaving her mind to wander, Maggie began to wonder why, with the amount of stench within such a confined space, there were not swarms of flies above their heads. Though, she supposed there was now enough rotting flesh out there for them to feast upon, why bothering with a few humans who would likely fight back. 

Resigning herself to another long wait within the car and attempting to ignore the constant protests of her nose, Maggie gently rested her head down upon her boyfriend's shoulder. Her bright eyes watched with little interest as the scenery passed by. Trees, rocks, the occasional stream, there wasn't much to take note of. Nothing special, nothing new-until suddenly there was. A large stone, roughly shaped like a bird on perch, propped up in a low hanging oak branch. 

Sitting upright suddenly, Maggie focused intently upon the road. 

“Maggie?” Glenn's voice was soft but concerned. “Is- is something wrong?” He asked, while the rest of the car's gaze turned to her as well, even Rick, who's blue eyes watched her in the rear-view mirror. 

She failed to respond, still staring out the window, looking for something. 

Trees...trees..a small patch of blue...trees. She waited another moment. Knowing, hoping she was right until it was proven. 

“There!” She nearly squealed with delight when she saw the weather worn road sign. The forest had almost overtaken it entirely. It had fallen over slightly, sticking up from the ground at an angle. Tall grass surrounded it and vines were slowly climbing up the metal pole, but it could still be read. 

Chota creek. 

“Pull over!” She demanded, her tone excited instead of harsh. 

The group's quizzical gazes continued but if anything came of the apocalypse, it was trust. Pressing his foot down upon the brake, Rick followed her instructions, steering the vehicle to the side of the road. The action was more out of habit than the thought of blocking any oncoming traffic. He pressed on the horn once, delivering a short beep to signal to Daryl that they were stopping. 

Taking a cue from Maggie, Beth slowly opened the sliding door allowing most of the group to spill out onto the grassy roadside. Stiff limbs protested the change in position and vertebra cracked as they stretched.

“Why'd ya'll stop?” Daryl asked as he and Carol walked over to them, his crossbow was in hand and at the ready for when, not if, the walkers appeared. T-dog, having been released from the truck was scanning the woods, peering through the trees for any signs of danger. Carl was hovering near the van, close at hand, in case his mother might need him. 

Rick shrugged and motioned towards Maggie, who had run to the edge of the forest as soon as she had exited the van. She was eagerly walking along the tree line, clearly looking for something. 

“Maggie...what are you looking for?” Glenn asked, trailing behind her like a rather worried puppy. He was rather worried at the strangely excited grin that light his girlfriend's face. She was almost giddy, something that you didn't see anymore, not in days like these. 

Her fast pace skidded to a stop suddenly causing Glenn to nearly collide into her. “This is it!” She exclaimed, her smile growing brighter. Confused, Glenn's eyes narrowed as he attempted to see what she saw. All he saw were rocks and leaves, dirt and litter, nothing of any note. 

By now the whole group had been drawn to her odd behavior, many walking over to the pair of them to see what the commotion was about. “What is it, Maggie?” Hershel asked, his low-key calm voice finally reaching his daughter and reminding her she needed to explain herself. Her cheeks grew slightly red, as though she was embarrassed but Hershel knew his daughter, she was not the type to be embarrassed about her happiness. Something else was up. 

“Um, I'm sorry daddy, but in high school I ah-would come down here for parties.” She answered him sheepishly, knowing her rebellious teenage years had hurt her father. “There's a creek and a waterfall. It's secret and beautiful and we could all use a break.” 

She looked around at the group, studying each face. Many of them look intrigued by the thought, many yearning for a bath, to wash the stink from their bodies. Rick and Daryl, however, looked a bit more suspicious. Daryl walked up, sending a more critical eye into the underbrush. His tracking skills quickly picked up the faint trail. The kids had done a decent job at hiding the entrance to their little party spot, but further in the path became more clear. 

“It's not hard to get down there and it's well worth it.” Maggie said, attempting to persuade the group to accept a little R&R, for one afternoon. Life on the road, the hard winter had taken a toll on them. They had grown stronger and yet weaker at the same time. They were tired and weary and had dealt with so much loss, Maggie hope a small bit of beauty might improve their spirits.

“A creek does sound nice.” Beth agreed when her sister fell quiet. “We were gonna stop for lunch anyways. Maybe we could catch some fish.” 

A few of the others nodded, also feeling encouraged by the idea. Rick's concerned eyes looked at each person around him, before he shifted to look over his shoulder towards his wife who was still sitting in the car. The constant traveling had been the hardest on her, the constant stress of living on the run, not to mention the regular troubles that simply came with pregnancy. If it wasn't morning sickness it was motion sickness from the car. His wife needed this, his son needed this, and so did everyone else. 

“Okay,” Rick said, looking back at Maggie. “How far is it?” 

Maggie smiled once more, her freckles standing out against the sun. “Bout a quarter mile down hill. The path was pretty smooth last time I was here.” 

“Daryl and I will go check it out, make sure it's safe then we can have you guys come down.” Rick instantly stepped into his 'leader mode', his voice full of authority. Once it had been decided that the best way to avoid any trouble would be to have the vehicles ready at a moment's notice, just in case, the pair headed out through the trees. 

Sure enough, after a rather short walk, they found the creek just as Maggie had said, but instead of the smallish stream everyone had been imagining they had discovered a truly beautiful hidden treasure. A rather large waterfall, it's face reaching nearly thirty feet up, cascaded into the clear lagoon. Large boulders sat in the pool, forming small, smooth islands. It lacked the sandy beach but each flat rock made a wonderful open shelf for sunbathing. Lush trees surrounded the space and a smaller creek flowed away from the pool and into the woods. 

Cautiously stepping forward, Daryl let out a low whistle as he attempted to draw possible walkers out from where they might be lurking. When nothing made itself known, Rick upped the ante and called out but still nothing appeared. It still took a few more minutes before the pair was willing to call the area safe. They scanned the bottom of the pool and the top of the waterfall as best they could before finally deciding to call the rest of their people to them. 

The way down was not a smooth as Maggie had once remembered, but she had been well fed and younger then. Beer cans and bottles were scattered over the dirt ground, Hershel giving each one a disapproving eye despite himself. Soon, though, everyone was down and staring in wonder at this secret, untouched gem of nature. 

“I'm gonna look 'round.” Daryl said gruffly once everyone was settled. The redneck disappeared into the thick underbrush without another word, intent on searching the area further for any possible dangers. 

Sadly enough and very telling of the life they now led, neither Beth nor Carl were quick to venture into the water. Their young eyes kept looking towards everyone else, as though they could not remember how to relax or have any fun. 

“Come, guys.” T-Dog spoke up, stripping off his shirt as he stepped into the water. “Race you to the other side.” He challenged, urging the youngest pair to follow him in. The man, in another life, would have proven to be a wonderful dad. He may have been kinda quiet in social interactions but he had proven to be strong, loyal, and caring. A truly beneficial member of the group. 

Carefully sitting down on one of the flat rocks, Lori wrinkled her nose as she peeled of her shoes and sweaty socks, laying them beside her to air out. A deep sigh of relief escaped her as she lowered her aching feet into the cool waters. Lori grinned as she watched her son begin to show signs of his former self, of the young boy that he should have been. He giggled, his face bright with mirth as he and Beth teamed up on T-Dog and began to splash the older man. 

Maggie took a moment to look out over the area, at everyone she had come to think of as family. Carol was already working to make the most of their time there, collecting laundry and starting a fire. She had been like that ever since they had found Sophia-kept herself focused on survival and nothing else. It wasn't healthy but it was needed to keep herself grounded. Hershel was caring for Lori and Rick was nearby, listening to everything that was said while keeping a close eye on their surroundings. 

Walking over to Glenn, Maggie was nearly bouncing as she lay her chin on his shoulder from behind. 

“Come on, I wanna show you something.” She whispered to him, the same grin that she had worn on the side of the road on her lips once more. 

He looked at her with confusion, enjoying the physical touch and playful nature but concerned by it at the same time. 

“But we just got here.” Glenn argued, halfheartedly, almost groaning as she nipped at his ear. 

“Just come, I promise it will be worth it.” She replied, tugging on his hand and pulling him back into the woods while biting down on the corner of her own lip with a mischievous glint in her eye. He followed her obediently over to the gorge wall. Most of the rock face was a sheer drop, completely impassible without climbing gear, except for one area that Maggie was leading him to. The angle was no less steep here but some trees had seemed to overtake much of the rock. Thick roots twisted around each other, tying themselves into knots until they had created an intricate web of hand and foot holds, perfect for climbing. 

Maggie did not even hesitate before pulling herself up a few feet before she turned to look towards her boyfriend. She would treasure that adorable shocked expression for years to come, if she was lucky enough to have them. It only lasted a moment before Glenn's own adventurous nature was sparked as well and his face lit up with a grin. 

The pair ascent up the wall did not take them long, both finding enjoyment in the physical exercise that did not involve the fear of death. Though, if Glenn were to be honest, he enjoyed the celebratory kiss they shared when they reached the top a bit more. 

“Follow me.” Maggie encouraged, leading him back in the direction towards the river. They could not yet see the water but the roar of the waterfall was nearly deafening as they drew closer with each step. 

“There's a pool. The rocks-” Maggie was explaining to Glenn, leaning into his ear so she could be heard. She stopped short, however, as the trees thinned, her voice caught in her throat. The scene was the same as she had remembered it. Large boulders, too big for the water to push down the waterfall, created a small pool of gently flowing water. It was about waist deep and the shore was muddy. The small embankment, just off of the rushing river, had offered the perfect solitude for rebellious teens. Very few people had even known about it. 

Despite it's secretive location, a figure was now standing in the calm waters. Reacting mostly out of habit, Maggie instantly pulled Glenn and herself behind another of the large rocks that were scattered everywhere in Georgia, unsure if the person was dead or alive, threat or not. Two pairs of eyes, one brown and one green, peeked out from behind the rock. It only took them a second to realize that the man was indeed alive and not a threat to them. The still intact flesh was not rotting away and the muscles beneath had not shriveled to nothing. 

Daryl Dixon stood, waist deep in the water, his back towards them as he scanned the other shore. He was watching the trees intently though he did not stop his actions as he bent to cup the water and wash off the grime that covered his skin. Laying nearby, his shirt had been abandoned in the hot rays of the afternoon sun. Each small palm full of water was tossed over his shoulders to run down his lean back, washing away the dirt that was caked there. Maggie found herself watching as the liquid flowed in droplets over the flesh. Something did not look right but she and Glenn were still too far away for her to clearly understand what she was seeing. His skin looked mottled by the dirt but thick brown lines also covered his back, darker that the normal grim on the rest of his skin. 

She stepped forward, intent to sneak forward for a closer look but was stopped mid-stride by Glenn's hand upon her forearm. Her furrowed brow and narrowed green eyes turned back towards her boyfriend, clearly confused as to why he had stopped her. “Maggie, we should go somewhere else.” He said in a whisper, tugging at her hand gently. 

The stubborn farmer's daughter shook his hand off, straightening a bit and fixing him with an upraised eyebrow. She was not going to be leaving without an answer, her curious nature was not going to allow her to walk away just yet and Glenn knew it. 

He looked down in a moment of frustration, not wanting to share with her what he had seen of the youngest Dixon's back. “Look, he's got scars, okay..Lots of them-from before.”

Glenn had hoped that the small amount of information would be enough for her but Maggie turned around, peering over the boulder once more. If she squinted, she could just see the pattern of the darkened lines that marred his back. 

“He doesn't like people seeing 'em. If he knows we’re here, he'll kill us both.” Glenn attempted to convince her to leave once more and this time, she seemed to take his words to heart. Moving back towards him, they were both about to walk away when movement on the opposite shore caught their attention. 

A walker stumbled out upon the rocks, it's snarls consumed by the rushing waters and behind it came another, and another. Multiple animated corpses were soon lurching forward, attracted to the loud roar of the rapids and, once they took notice of the living people on the opposite shore, to the potential meal. 

“Get outta the water!” Daryl acted quickly as he watched the first walker wade into the water with a splash. The redneck ran over to the very edge of the cliff, leaning down to see the people, his group, below. Each one of them looked up in surprise, which quickly morphed into abject terror as the first walker was caught up by the current and thrown over the waterfall. It hit the water's surface with such impact that it's rotting body broke apart and scattered. One after another was swept over the ledge, snarling death raining down upon the originally peaceful lagoon. 

Maggie and Glenn ran to the tangle of branches, intent to get down to help their friends and family. Roots and dirt fell to the ground below in her scramble off the cliff yet and dirt wedged itself under her nails but her only concern was to get to the ground quickly and help everyone get to safety. Once her feet were securely back on earth, she could feel Glenn directly behind her, his strong hand on her back, ready to assist her as they ran. 

Back above the waterfall, Daryl watched in shock as more walkers poured from the trees, falling into the river. There were too many for him to take care of with his meager supplies of arrows, but he would try and help where he could. Balancing upon the edge, he was provided with a bird's eye view of the horror below. Most of the walkers broke apart against the rocks as they fell and were driven underwater by the sheer force of the falls. 

Young Beth was on the far side of the pool, scrambling to escape. She was wedged in by large rocks on either side of her and the bank was proving too slick for her to climb up. Her father was struggling through the thick forest to get to her and help. Suddenly a still-intact walker head surfaced from the water beside her. It's pale, dead eyes were glaring at her and it's flesh-stained teeth were snapping. The terror in the young girl's face increased ten-fold, tears flooding her bright eyes. Beth's panicked movements became more desperate which, churned the water, and only managed to bring the deadly creature closer to her. 

A sharp hiss filled the air next to her ear just a second before the head submerged once more. Shock coursed through Beth and she released a high-pitched gasp of relief when the head bobbed back to the surface, an arrow impaled though one of it's eye sockets. 

Cut and bleeding from the thorns that he had fought against to reach his daughter, Hershel finally broke free of the foliage and leaned forward to pull Beth to safety. Chaos ruled as the group ran back up the trail, intent to escape the danger descending from the sky behind them. Maggie ran forward to help Lori and Carol up the path, Lori's enlarged belly making it harder for her to move up hill at such a speed. Carl was behind her, his small pistol held at the ready and his wet hair plastered to his head. 

Daryl waited until he could no longer see anyone from his perch before he pivoted on his foot and ran over to the climbing wall to join his group. Acting more out of habit that actual thought, Daryl managed to slip his angel-wing vest over his shoulders as he too ran up the path, passing a watchful Rick, who was hanging back with the intention to be sure everyone got out safely, as the leather slipped into place.

Within minutes the group was back in their vehicle and on the move, leaving the peaceful lagoon, with it's once crystal clear waters now stained red, far behind. Turning in her seat, Maggie watched as the familiar stretch of road disappeared behind them, a deep ache descending over her as she came to the realization that yet another site of her happy childhood was tarnished forever by the dead, just like the farmhouse. And yet, returning to sit straight in her chair and looking out the front windshield, Maggie scolded herself for thinking so selfishly as she watched Carol adjust her grip around Daryl's waist as they sped over the asphalt of the road. The silver haired woman's cheek was pressed directly over the leather where the farmer's daughter now knew hide a rather massive scar. She needed to treasure the memories she had of her wonderful childhood and not allow them to be sullied for anything, for clearly, not everyone could look upon their past with fondness and happiness like she was able to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read! Please write me a review and let me know how I'm doing!!


	5. Hershel Greene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERSHEL GREENE: Season Three- Some time between ‘The Killer Within’ and ‘Made to Suffer’. 
> 
> Here is the next chapter. I know Hershel may have seen Daryl’s scars when he had patched him up back in season two however I’m assuming that with the stress of everything going on, he would not have paid them much attention at the time.

HERSHEL GREENE: 

There was no grandiose moment when Hershel saw Daryl's scars for the first time. His shirt, as tattered as the fabric was, was not torn from his back in the heat of battle to provide some stunning reveal to all those present. There was no dingy cell in which their captors stripped them of their coverings to inflict a harsh beating and there was no possibly fatal wound that needed to be immediately bound.   
It was simple laundry day. 

The older, retired veterinarian was not usually on laundry duty but the still unnamed child of Rick was proving to occupy most of young Beth's time. Seeing this, Hershel had graciously offered to help Carol with the chores and, in truth, he didn't mind the work. It kept him busy, made him feel useful, and there was something truly comforting about returning to such menial tasks. Tasks that reminded him of the times before every, before the change 

Currently he was making his slow progress towards the perch that their resident redneck had claimed as his own, with the intent of collecting any clothing that he may need washed. He stopped at the foot of the metal stairway, not yet feeling confident enough in his footing to attempt the ascend with only one leg. Instead, he squinted upward into the shadows in search of Daryl. 

A small alcove of the cell block, it was more of a landing platform where the stairs met with the balcony before the line of cells began. Thin metals railings surrounded the edges, providing a barrier to prevent falling but offering no sort of privacy. A thin prison mattress had been dragged out of one of the nearby cells and lay on the floor. If Hershel strained his aging eyes, he could see the reddish-brown stains facing downward, leaving a slightly yellowed but otherwise much cleaner side up for Daryl to sleep on. His crossbow was leaning against the wall at what Hershel assumed was the head of the bed, though there was no pillow for him to judge by. The weapon was loaded with a single arrow but not cocked, ready for use at a moments notice. A filthy knapsack sat next to that, packed and also ready for a quick get-away should the need arise. 

The dim alcove showed all the signs of the redneck's presence and yet he was no where in sight. 

“Daryl?” Hershel called out, his voice carrying though the rather empty cement room. Most everyone was currently outside, enjoying the decent weather and security the prison provided. “Daryl, son? Are you up there?” 

The farmer jumped as he was answered, not from above but from behind him. 

“Ain't yur son.” Daryl's gruff voice replied. He shouldered past Hershel, though, the older man did notice how the rough-and-tough redneck took great care not to actually touch Hershel lest he lose his balance. The soft 'clang' of his boots echoed through the space as he ascended the metal steps up to his 'room'. 

“Sorry, Daryl.” He apologized reflexively, not allowing the younger man's statement to affect him any. The man lacked social graces but in the world that they now lived in, 'please' and 'thank you' were the least of their problems. “I'm gathering laundry for Carol. Do you have any?” Gentle gray eyes scanned the area for any loose articles of clothing. 

“Nah.” 

Hershel's eyes narrowed slightly at the man's refusal, having clearly seen the dark grimy patches on the coarse fabric shirt he always wore. Dirt, sweat, and blood were not an unusual part of anyone's outfit and the smell was now just an everyday occurrence but that did not omit a person from general hygiene when it was available, rare as it was.

“What about that shirt you're wearing? It could use a wash?” 

Daryl grunted, picking up his small quiver of arrows with the intention of sharpening them and, if needed, replacing some of the shafts that had worn out. “It'z fine.” 

The younger man had fully expected Hershel to leave at that point, the conversation clearly over, but the veterinarian did not. He remained where he stood, leaning against the railing at the foot of the steps. His missing leg was a stark reminded of the danger that lay beyond the walls and his piercing gray eyes remained calm as he watched Daryl silently. His gaze was nothing but patient, a look he had used upon his own children when they were being unreasonable.

It only took a moment for Daryl to grow uneasy, clearly not comfortable with being watched. “Wha'cu want ole man?” He growled, looking up from his work with a glare. 

The angry response did not seem to phase Hershel in the slightest, he merely shrugged. “I made a promise to Carol to collect your laundry-”

“Well, then ya broke tha promise...” The sentence was muttered but it could still be heard even with the distance between them. 

Again, Hershel regarded the man with silence for a moment. “Glenn found some soap in one of the laundry rooms, there wasn't much but it will last a short bit. It will be nice to have clean clo-”

Daryl cut him off as he huffed and stood, reaching around himself to tug his leather vest off before pulling off his shirt as well. “Damn it, I'll give it ta ya, if ya just shut-up.” He snapped, kicking the article of clothing forward with his feet. It feel a few steps down but it was still too far up for Hershel to reach. 

The redneck growled again, this one directed towards himself. The shirt lay between them for a long pause, Daryl staring at the clothing as he bit his lip, his brow furrowed. It struck Hershel as odd that the man would appear to be so perturbed by a few simple steps but as Daryl knelt down to retrieve the shirt he understood. The deep, discolored scars were just visible over the curve of his left shoulder, opposite his tattoo. Memories flooded back to Hershel, his aging brain having been more focused on survival than to remember the mutilated flesh of his fellow compatriot. 

He had seen the scars underneath thick layers of dirt before but the circumstances had been dire and had left no time for curiosity to blossom over the past of one brusque and ill-mannered red neck. Hershel's focus had strictly been upon healing the man who had appeared to be impaled by his own arrow and then grazed by a bullet along his temple, a lucky miss by all accounts. 

Now, unlike then, Hershel had the opportunity to truly study the sight before him, even if it was just a glimpse. A few thick lines of scars tissue were visible along his shoulders, crossing over one another in a morbid cross-stitch. One, which cut close by the tattoo that appeared to depict an angel and a demon grappling with each other, was longer than the rest. It was clear to the veterinarian's trained eyes by the sharp, clearly defined edges of the wound that it had been made by a blade. The others were thicker, almost smeared in appearance. They were the type of marks that were inflicted by a belt, striking the same location time and time again, with little opportunity to heal. 

The skin spoke of a childhood of horror and fear and Hershel had only seen his shoulders. His memories were muted and hazy but Hershel knew enough to fill in the missing pieces, of what the rest of Daryl's back looked like. He had seen such marks only on occasion during his career, mostly on the hides abused horses. It was a sight that had angered and sickened him each time and yet he felt none of that now. The person or people who had done that to Daryl were dead, most of the world was dead now and they couldn't do any more harm. Instead he felt a deeper understanding of the man before him. 

Where he had come from and what he had survived in order to become who he was today. 

The motion of bending down to retrieved the offending garment was mere seconds and very soon, Hershel was broken from his thoughts as Daryl grunted once more. His hands was outstretched, close enough to Hershel's face that he could clearly see the dirt that had collected underneath the man's fingernails. He could see the hardened calluses on his fingertips and he could see the slightly raised circular burn scar on the back of his hand, just between two of his knuckles. 

“Ya gonna take it or jus' stare inta nothin', ole man?” Daryl asked, clearly losing the minuscule amount of patience he still possessed. 

Hershel said nothing, blinking his dark musings from his mind. He reached out a free hand, taking the fabric from Daryl with a small smile. “Thank you, Daryl. When I return it, you will hardly even recognize it.”

Daryl scoffed under his breath, keeping up his hardened exterior with ease. “Wha'ever.”

Despite both considering the conversation to be over, Daryl stayed in place in the center of the stairs. 

Hershel nodded politely to him, believing to know why the younger man was stalling, before he turned, grasping the shirt against the handle of one of his crutches as he hobbled out of the cell block. Sure enough, as soon as his back was turned, Hershel could hear Daryl's feet upon the steps once more before the soft rustle of his leather vest. 

“Next time, I'm taking those pants too.” He called out, causing Daryl to look down at his ripped and clearly stained trousers, a small disgusted sneer gracing the redneck's lips. If Hershel thought he would get Daryl to give up his pants, he had another thing coming, two legs or one.


	6. Michonne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I found Michonne a bit difficult to write but I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a comment and let me know how I did with the B.A. warrior we all love!

MICHONNE: SET EARLY BETWEEN SEASONS THREE AND FOUR. DARYL AND MICHONNE ARE STILL ACTIVELY SEARCHING OUT THE GOVERNOR. 

Supply runs and bad weather do not mix and the weather that was currently beating upon the window pane was what Michonne would consider bad weather. She and currently holed up in a neighborhood waiting out the storm. They had planned on driving another fifty miles out, to gather supplies and search for the Governor, but they had been forced to stop when mother nature had taken a turn for the worse. 

She was standing at the living room window, her slim fingers pulling apart the dusty blinds to peer out into the street. Michonne watched as a few scattered walkers were present, lurching back and forth as they chased the storm. The winds were too loud for Michonne to hear but she was certain they were snarling angrily. The sky overhead was overcast and a sickly green. Violent winds tore at the trees, their branches waving harshly in every direction. Rain fell in torrents, flooding the pavement with a shallow river. 

Within the house, the pair had found shelter, a dry place to stay, but Michonne would not have considered it cozy. The home was neat and organized, if you ignored the layers of dust covering everything. It didn't look as though it had been touched by looters or scavengers. They had found a decent amount of canned foods and a case of water. Everything they had collected was sitting nearby in a neat pile, waiting to be loaded into the car outside. The house had been a proverbial gold mine. Along with the supplies a rather impressive art collection still lay untouched with the building, decorating the walls. 

A Balthus hung to Michonne's right, it's once brilliant brush strokes having faded with neglect. It was odd to Michonne, how out of place she felt standing in the midst of the living room. The surrounding décor and collections were so much like her own home, from before. Many of the art pieces were from the same artists that she had once treasured, had spent a large amount of her time in search of. It had once been an atmosphere that she had found safe and inviting but now, despite the familiarity, she only found it to be uncomfortable. 

She knew she had changed, everyone had been forced to if they had wanted to live but it had never been so starkly clear to her until right then. Having been so focused on survival, Michonne had forced herself to stop feeling, stop caring, stop remembering. The once fun loving, creative, and artistic woman who had loved her downtown penthouse which sat in the very center of the Arts District, was gone. Forced down and starved until she no longer would make herself known. 

Michonne now felt no joy as she stared at the paintings, no wonder or intrigue as she scanned each intricate brush-stroke. The Michonne from the past was dead, as dead as the moaning beasts outside. 

“Found som' comics fer Carl.” Daryl's gruff voice broke her from her musings as he tramped down the stairs. 

He had just finished searching the second story for anything that may prove useful but he had found very little. Flicking his wrist, Daryl threw the flimsy paper book into the air so that it fell onto the coffee table in front of her. It landed with a mighty crash- courtesy of the loud clap of thunder that was perfectly timed with it's flight. 

Unimpressed with the coincidence, Michonne looked up at him, her brown eyes focusing on the few items in his arms. A tube of unopened toothpaste, a pair of scissors, and a small, white fleece blanket. Before she even gave her reaction a thought, one of Michonne's eyebrows raised with a questioning expression. 

“Thought lil' ass-kicker might like a new blanket.” He mumbled, having seen her subtle inquiry. He was holding the blanket delicately, away from his skin as though to not sully it's still pristine white by his unwashed skin. His words, while his voice was rough and somewhat like gravel, brought a very small smile to the woman's lips. The rather coarse moniker for young Judith was said with a slight softening of his tone. Michonne was fairly certain Daryl was not even aware he did it, but she had noticed. 

She nodded, saying nothing as she sat down on the sofa, which was lightly moth-eaten but quite comfortable. By the sounds of the storm, they would be here the rest of the night. Michonne removed her katana and set it down, well within reach, preparing to settle down until morning. Daryl followed. her lead, walking over to the matching recliner. Instead of sitting down, he used the new position to look outside, despite not being able to see anything in the darkness.

They remained silent for a bit, the moment's ticking by. 

Suddenly, the air was filled with the over-powering sound of a freight train. The surrounding glass windows, that were not boarded over, shattered, creating small glistening shards of shrapnel that flew through the room and bit into the flesh of Michonne and Daryl's forearms as they covered their heads reflexively. The entire house seemed to be screaming around them, shaking in the storm. 

Stumbling forward, Daryl's strong grasp found Michonne's arm and he tugged her towards the door just off the hallway. She could see his lips moving but his voice was completely drowned out by the wind. It led to an unfinished basement. Pulling it open, he pushed Michonne through before following himself. It took both of them to fight the wind and force the door shut, which was just in time, as Daryl had witnessed the limp body of a walker be blown through a now open window, tossed around like a rag doll.

Both survivors were panting heavily, Michonne's hand still on the doorknob. Daryl chuckled lightly while Michonne smirked as they pondered the near miss that they once more had escaped. It was getting to be a day-to-day thing. The redneck was the first to move, stepping forward onto the rickety wooden staircase. The splintering creak as the wood gave way was not loud enough to be heard over the high winds and the pair was given no warning as the floor fell out from beneath them. Gravity took control, pulling them downward to the hard concrete below. It tugged the katana from her hand, pulling it into the darkness. 

They landed in a pile of tangled limbs and rubble, their moans of pain not sounding that unlike the dead that now inhabited their world. The sudden impact drove the air from Michonne's lungs, leaving her to gasp in shock. She attempted to gain control over her breathing once more by taking slow, deep breaths but she instead began to cough violently, inhaling the dust and dirt that clouded the air. Her entire body ached but, after shifting somewhat, she was fairly certain that nothing was broken- just badly bruised. Groaning softly as she sat up right, Michonne felt around, pushing what felt like broken timbers from her legs and chest, while she squinted into the darkness of the underground room. 

“Daryl? Daryl?!” She called out-or attempted to between coughing fits. 

The storm, in it's powerful fury, seemed to steal the very sounds from her lips. The room seemed still, in an odd way silent against the cacophony of the weather-until it wasn't. 

An intense lighting strike abruptly illuminated the entire basement to show Daryl, nearly buried under the broken stairs and unmoving, an open cellar door as it flapped harshly in the wind, and the rotting claws of a walker, which was stumbling towards her only six feet away, with it's mouth gaping open as it prepared to bite. 

And just as quickly, the light was gone. 

Panicked, Michonne scrambled backwards with her hands and feet, her eyes wide as she attempted to see the murderous creature within the unrelenting shadows. Knowing she would need to risk it, she twisted just enough to scramble to her feet, instantly smacking her forehead against something in the dark. She ignored the pain and turned to face the direction of the threat once more, adrenaline flooding her once more.

Another bolt of lighting lit the area without warning, revealing the walker to have indeed moved closer, clearly using her scent to track her before darkness fell again. 

Michonne continued to moved around the basement, one hand reaching behind her to feel for unseen obstacles and the other out-stretched is hopes of fending off the corpse. She strained her senses, attempting to see or hear anything of the walker but the room was too black and the roar of the storm was still the only thing that filled her ears. The hardened swords-woman nearly screamed as fingers clawed at her ankle, tugging on her pant leg. 

Coming to the conclusion that the walker must have fallen over something, Michonne began to stomp and kick. She had no idea where to aim but she hoped she hit the actual walker and had not just destroyed some old man's bowling trophies. Stopping only when she felt the satisfying snap of a bone beneath her sole. She knew it was not the skull, having felt more like an arm or leg, but she retreated anyway. Michonne fled sideways, running into what felt to be a wooden table. 

Launching herself on top of it, she paused, her hands feeling around on the surface hoping for something she might use as a weapon and praying for the next lighting strike. 

Her prayers were answered when the light filled the room once more but only for a second, but a second was all she needed. The walker was back on it's feet, staggering towards her with one arm hanging out of socket but what stood out most to Michonne was laying to her left. A hammer, one of the older looking ballpein hammers without the sharp claw on the back of it. She snatched it up just as the light vanished. 

Feeling slightly more confident now that she held a weapon in her hand, Michonne hopped off the table on the opposite side that the corpse was advancing from. While she knew the workbench was rather narrow, she still kept her hips pressed tight against the end. She would need to know when the walker made impact with the table but her hands needed to be free. Despite only having a few seconds to wait, to her it felt like an eternity. 

The jolt of the table was harsh, pushing it back a few centimeters, but Michonne was ready. She began to rain down a fury of blows where she estimated the head to be, not stopping even as she made contact. Lighting lit the sky and her actions were revealed. The walker was still 'alive' but she had managed to dent a large part of it's skull. All Michonne would need to do is hit the exact spot again but, true to fashion, her sight was taken away at the least convenient moment. 

She did not stop, continuing to raise her arm and let it fall, counting the seconds until she could see again, and it did come. This time showing that the walker was truly dead now. Another strike followed the first one closely, giving her a few more precious seconds to scan the room for any more threats. She found none. 

Working from memory in the dark, she crept forward to the cellar door, knowing she needed to get it closed quickly before something else went wrong. It took all of her strength to close it, laughing in disbelieving triumph when she slid the iron deadbolt into place. Now well and truly in the dark, she cautiously made her way over to where she had seen Daryl, still laying where he had fallen. She found his shoulder first, feeling along his torso to rest a hand on his chest to check it he was still breathing.   
She had never thought the simple rise and fall of someone's breath could bring such comfort as it did right then. It meant she was not alone and she wouldn't need to put him down. 

“Daryl. Daryl, wake up.” She said, her voice still loud but no longer at the volume that she had needed to use when the cellar door had still been open. He did not appear to stir so Michonne began to roll him over slightly. The backpack was still slung across his shoulders, along with his crossbow. Reaching into the pocket, Michonne quickly located the flashlight that she knew he always kept in there. 

Flicking it on, she flinched as the sudden source of light burned her eyes. The beam cast eerie shadows through the basement and though she had already done one sweep, Michonne took the time to scan the area once more for any signs of danger, just in case. The room was void of any living thing sans them. It was cluttered with boxes and shelves Cobwebs and spiders hung from the ceiling and the houses pipeline was exposed near where the stairs had been. Water marks stained the cement floor and if Michonne were to hazard a guess, he would assume one of those pipes had broken and flooded the basement at one point, weakening the stairs. 

Content that they were in no immediate danger, Michonne turned back to her traveling companion, panic chilling her veins once more as she saw the large patch of blood upon Daryl's side, soaked into his shirt. 

“Oh no.” She mumbled to no one but herself. Quickly but gently, she began to remove rubble from the man's body. Unsure of the damage, Michonne slowly peeled up the side of Daryl's shirt. The blood was tacky, having already begun to dry, causing the fabric to stick to his skin. Finding no wound on his abdomen, she very gingerly pulled him away from the wreckage and lay him on his stomach so that she could see his back, struggling under his weight. 

Her doe brown eyes widened when the beam of light fell over the wooden stake that had pierced the man's hip, just above his pant's waist line. It did not appear to have entered the flesh very deep and would most likely only require some expert stitches from Hershel. Knowing she would need to patch him up as best she could and wanting to check him for further injuries, Michonne tugged the hem of his coarse shirt up the rest of the way, until it sat, bunched up around his neck, and once more she was shocked by what she found. 

The raised lines formed an intricate patchwork across the tan canvas. Small white lines, thinner and more delicate, were hidden among thick, red and brown ones. Some curved slightly, almost playfully, and others were straight. They ran together, overlapping each other or clustering up into tight groupings. The flashlight's pale beam shined upon the image, exaggerating each rise and fall, hill and valley. It cast shadows, darkening certain areas and brightly illuminating others. Black and gray covered one section, their placement defined and deliberate. Blues, reds, yellows, and greens, each of varying hues, covered the area. The pallet was earthy, natural, vibrant and alive. 

Too alive. 

Suddenly Michonne came back to herself, jolting as she fully realized just what she was truly seeing. 

People often say that art is born suffering. Born of the artist's tears, their pain, their passions. That a brushstroke, a pallet choice, a chosen image could tell you so much about the artist with just a glance, but what of the canvas? What of the people who chose their own skin as the means to display such masterpieces? 

Tattoos were a way of expressing one's self upon their own flesh. A way to display who you are, who you were, what you hoped to gain and what you had lost to the public. It proclaimed your meaning. Daryl's tattoo was dark and aggressive and very, very telling. It portrayed an angel and a demon, locked in a bitter battle, warring between themselves as they fell. A constant struggle between good and evil, right and wrong. 

The permanent ink was his- he had chosen the image, he had sat for hours to get the lines and movement just right and he had cared for the reddened skin as it had healed but the rest of the marks, just as lasting, were not. The scars turned Michonne's stomach, clawed at her heart. It was not a stretch to assume that Daryl had not been blessed with a stellar childhood. Before today, she would have even ventured to guess that he had grown up with some minor abuse-but nothing to this extent. This was torture. 

There was no beauty in this, no hidden art form. It was morbid and uncivilized and it fit all-to-perfectly into the world as it was now. Is that what spoke to her now? Did she only see the world through fear and pain? She had once seen so much more in the world. 

Michonne's dark eyes widened when she considered the implications. Daryl, a young freckle-faced boy, had lived day to day like they did now, long before the apocalypse. He had snuck around corners, scavenged for food, face terrifying monsters everyday. Daryl Dixon had been a survivor long before the rest of them, long before the change. 

And he would keep surviving now, if Michonne had anything to say about it. 

“Come on, sleeping beauty, let's get you cleaned up.” Michonne mumbled, replacing his shirt back down until she could only see the current wound. She worked diligently, removing the shard of wooden and quickly applying pressure to the blood puncture. This did rouse the archer somewhat, Daryl groaning and twitching away from the pain. He opened his blue eyes blearily, blinking as though he had just woken from a peaceful nights sleep. 

“What 'r ya doin?” He rasped, looking around to see just the very edge of her dreads. One callused hand reached up to gingerly touch the side of his head where a large swollen bump had formed. The skin was torn, bleeding slightly, but not enough to concern him. 

“You were stabbed.” Michonne answered, her voice seemingly emotionless as she continued to apply pressure with one hand while the other began to collect the makeshift bandages she always had on hand. 

Daryl grunted, seemingly okay with the knowledge and, now knowing what lay under his shirt, Michonne had the uneasy feeling that he knew exactly how it felt.


	7. Tyreese Williams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyreese ended up rather short I hope you all don't mind too much. I will try and make the next one longer. In this chapter, I chose to write Tyreese from early on. I wanted a chance to write him as the tender-hearted dreamer he was, so this might be a little 'sappy' (for lack of a better term). Also I took a few liberties with the prison layout to fit the chapter.

TYREESE: A VERY SHORT TIME AFTER SEASON 3 ‘WELCOME TO THE TOMBS’

Peace was nonexistent, a false truth spun by a society so gripped with chaos and unknowns that it fabricated such idealistic perfections and sold them to their children as a hopeful future but Tyreese knew better. 

His dad had never allowed him to buy into such fairy tales. Everyday, they would listen to the radio, listen to the horrors and atrocities that plagued the countries, the people, and each broadcast served as a reminder that the world was in no way perfect. He had taught them of the nightmares, taught them the truth, but he had also taught them of hope. The head of the Williams family had instilled within his children that despite the horrible things that happened each and every day it was their duty to pay attention and to help their fellow men. It was their duty to make the world a little better each day. 

Tyreese's father had promised them hope and joy but he had not promised them peace. However, it was moments like now, in the quiet stillness of night, Tyreese could almost believe such a thing could exist. 

Inside the prison, safe behind thick stone, everyone was asleep. Each was snuggly tucked away in their individual cells, doors left open and curtains swaying gently in the air. The clank of iron bars was absent and the echoing footsteps of his boots upon metal grating went unheard. 

Hard work, focused upon survival, sent every member of the newly formed community to greet their pillow with eagerness every night. Most nights Tyreese was just as anxious to join them except for this night. He had no reason that he could pinpoint as to his sudden aversion to slumber. Perhaps it was the foreign feeling of being safe after spending so long out there on the road, or just the crisp night air that stirred his veins. He did not know. 

He did, however, know that laying in bed, staring at the bunk above him would do no good, so Tyreese soon found himself roaming the stone hallways of the prison. Booted feet moved seemingly at their own accord, Tyreese simply allowing himself to wander. Each door within the sanctuary was clearly marked, and bolted if the room was not secure due to unwanted and unsavory guests. He had nothing to fear within the walls. 

He eventually found himself standing before an exterior door, which led to the sky walk between the two main buildings. Iron hinges creaked as he opened the door, breathing in the crisp night air. Stepping out unto the second story walkway shattered the illusion of peace Tyreese had been treasuring in a single instant. The comforting chorus of crickets and nocturnal animals was overpowered by the dead. What was once a serenade of the wonders of nature was interrupted by the moans of the unnatural. 

A small herd had been gathering just outside the fence line, slowly gaining in numbers over the last few days. The survivors, both those from Rick's group and the newly arrived people of Woodbury, had begun picking them off one by one- but more were always stumbling out from the woods. During the day, the walkers would cluster to the barrier, attracted by the activity, but at night they would become more scattered. Drawn by the noises of the woods, they would attempt to follow the chirp of the crickets- lurching back and forth as they chase the rather untraceable sound. The sight would have almost proven comical, if Tyreese had not seen what such creatures could do. What horrors that could create. 

Not wishing to waste another moment upon the monstrous threat, Tyreese took a deep breath, closing his eyes and releasing the puff of steam as he looked towards the sky. With the electrical grid no longer functioning, the blackened expanse above him had erupted into vibrant life. Light pollution had hidden so much of the sky before and Tyreese now could not seem to get enough of the beauty the total black-out had revealed. Millions of stars dotted the black like diamonds, planets shone gently. Galaxies swirled in the ebony field, clouds of dust and debris breaking up the dark. It was the most brilliant sight Tyreese had ever seen, and yet it had appeared at the very end of the world, when all around him had seemed to die. The sky had erupted with life. 

Despite the beauty, Tyreese could not seem to forget that even this extremely distant, vast, intricate universe held no peace. It was formed by continuing explosions and storms, meteorites crashing into each other and supernovas. There was no true peace, even in space. As silent as it was, there was no stillness. 

A sudden increase in the moans of the walkers drew Tyreese's attention from his musings. A collection of the dead had turned their focus from the insects and onto a lone figure that was silhouetted underneath the waning moon. It took only a short moment for Tyreese to identify the man, the crossbow upon his shoulders was a dead-give-away. Daryl Dixon, the loner redneck of Rick's group.   
Tyreese had not had many encounters with the man himself. Most of his contact had been with Rick, or Glenn, or the elder man, Hershel, Tyreese thought his name was. The most Tyreese knew was that which anyone could glean from simply observing the man. In the couple weeks that had passed since Woodbury had joined the prison, the man had spent most of it on the road with Michonne in search of the governor. 

Daryl was an absolute stranger to Tyreese, which was the main reason why he did not turn and walk away the moment he saw the archer. It was also strange to see anyone out so late and in the yard, but Daryl did have a few quirks. 

He walked over to the water barrels, where he was hidden by barriers from the walkers. Tyreese nearly jumped when he lit a match, the small flickering light growing once he lit one of the old-style lanterns that sat nearby. He adjusted the flame until it was the barest light, given off just enough to allow him to seen and no more. A pail of water was sat next to the lantern on the table and Tyreese's expression morphed into true surprise as the man removed his vest and shirt. The yellowed shirt was tossed into the bucket while the vest was laid to the side. Another few articles of clothing then appeared and were submerged into the container as well. He left his pants on, understandably unwilling to fully undress in the world as it was today. The man was doing his laundry at this ungodly hour of night and Tyreese watched, unable to look away with his brow furrowed in utter confusion. 

While the temperature could not be categorized as truly cold, Tyreese knew he would not be eager to plunge his hands into the soapy water but that was exactly what Daryl did. He moved his hands around vigorously, agitating the water and swirling the clothes around. He worked quickly, pulling his meager amount of clothing and wringing each one to rid the fabric of the excess water before hanging them over the rafters overhead. 

He took care as he washed his leather vest, pulling the red rag from his back pocket and gently dabbing at the intricate stitching of the angel wings. With the bucket now void of anything other than soap and dirty water, Tyreese expected the man to dump it, but in true survivor fashion, Daryl instead began to wipe himself down. Scrubbing the grime from his skin and the blood from his knotted hair. Finishing with his chestnut hair, Daryl threw the rag into the pail, or attempted to. Instead it hit the side of the container with a small thud before falling to the ground behind the table. 

Bending over, Daryl knelt on one knee and leaned forward to retrieve the wayward rag. This new position no longer created a silhouette of the redneck but instead illuminated his bare shoulders and back. 

Tyreese physically tensed at the sight, his large brown eyes locked upon the flesh, his brain running in overdrive as he attempted to process what he was seeing. His thoughts were screaming only one word, which was overpowering all other thoughts. Abuse. 

It often struck some people as odd that such a large and burly linebacker would wear his heart on his sleeve the way that Tyreese did. Football players were supposed to be testosterone-filled meatheads with just enough extra rage to make them ruthless on the sports field. Physically, Tyreese fit the role but once you took the time to speak with him it became clear that the man would never wish harm upon anyone. He had been a gentle soul before the change and, despite everything, he still was now. 

And so, when the dim light revealed such a blatant map of childhood cruelty, Tyreese felt his gut churn and his chest tighten. The sight was only the merest of seconds, only lasting until Daryl straightened once more and his back was cast back into shadow. 

The sight, however, was burned forever within Tyreese's mind. 

He withdrew quickly, conscious that he had just witnessed something very personal that was meant to be hidden. What other reason would there be to do your laundry and bathe at such a late hour other than to hide the scars? 

As could be expected, Tyreese encountered no one on his route back to his cell, the finger tips of his right hand ghosting along the cement walls, barely even registering the uneven surface of the mortar. The solitude was for the best, for Tyreese was so lost in thought that he would have most likely have ran over anyone who may have approached him instead. 

Daryl Dixon, the unannounced right-hand-man of Rick had been abused, severely, as a child. Such knowledge was not something Tyreese had ever wanted to know, and yet, at the same time he had. It made the loner redneck more – human. The gruff and indifferent exterior was not all that there was to the man. This was a man who still felt shame, shy, awkward. None of which were great feelings but if Daryl was willing to go to such lengths as to avoid being exposed and feeling such things, that meant that there were other emotions down there as well. 

It meant he was human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, please don't forget to leave a comment! A big thank you to all of you who have and continue to do so!!


	8. Mika Samuels

MIKA: BETWEEN SEASONS THREE AND FOUR; DARYL HAS BEGUN TO FOCUS MORE ON FINDING FELLOW SURVIVORS AND LESS ON FINDING THE GOVERNOR. 

Delicate.

That's the word Mika's 1th grade teacher had used to describe her and the young girl supposed she was, but if that meant that she was caring and kind and helped others when they needed her, then she was proud to be that. 

It wasn't as though she was blind or in 'de-nile' like she heard her daddy say to Lizzie when they didn't know she could hear them. She knew there was bad in the world. She had known even back when her Mom had been alive that bad things were out there, but this bright-eyed, delicate girl had decided to look for the good in everything-no matter what. Like her mom had taught her.

However, such an outlook on life had become harder and harder to hold onto, even for her. The monsters had crawled out from their closets and out from under the beds where they were meant to stay and had hurt people..had killed people. Including her mother. 

That was the hardest for Mika to accept. She had cried and cried with Daddy. Lizzie never had but Mika wasn't strong like Lizzie. She had had to cry, to mourn her mother. She remembered her mother, remembered how she would sing to her daughters every night, how she made the best cookies in the world, and what she would always say when things went wrong. 

“Everything works out the way it's supposed to.”

Mika began repeating the phrase over and over to herself everyday. It quickly took the place of her favorite songs, of the memories that she played over and over again late at night. Her mother's voice would ring through her thoughts every moment of every day, giving her hope and giving her peace, giving her the ability to trust that everything would work out. 

Her mother's voice was crisp and clear within her thoughts as she and her small family were cautiously approaching the old campground store. The windows were dark and smudged with dirt and the wooden siding was cracked but still mostly intact. The building looked untouched, no shattered window panes or broken doors. The camp store, located in the middle of nowhere, held the possibility of food, supplies, and shelter. 

The new hope brought a bright, toothy grin to Mika's lips. 

She desperately wanted to run ahead, to see what treasures she could find. Maybe she would find a new blanket, maybe some fruit! Her feet danced lightly upon the packed dirt road, jumping upon her toes in excitement, but she knew to wait. Daddy needed to make sure it was safe before they went in. 

“Stay behind me.” Her daddy's low voice stated above her, rumbling against his raw throat. 

That's when she remembered, what she really wanted to find was some medicine for him. 

Mika listened instantly, slipping in close to her father's side as Lizzie did the same on his opposite side. Wide blue eyes looked over at the older girl. Lizzie held a small dagger in her hand, ready in case it would need to be used. Mika didn't have one, Daddy having said that she was still too young, which Mika was okay with. Knives and guns still scared her. 

“Alright, you both hide behind there.” The large man said as they approached the porch of the old building, pointing to the large pile of firewood that was stacked up near the door. “Don't make any noise. I will get you once it's safe.” 

 

The next morning came very early, waking Mika with the first rays of sunlight shining through the filthy window. Brilliant, golden dust specks seemed to dance within the sunbeams, moving gently at each minute breeze. They were beautiful, bringing a content smile to Mika's lips. 

Her smile quickly faded as her dad began to cough once more. He had been sick all night, barely getting any real sleep. Dark circles bruised the underside of his eyes and he kinda looked like when Mommy had had to go to the hospital when her stomach had hurt a lot. She had needed some kind of surgery but Mika couldn't remember what for. 

He really, really needed some medicine but they hadn't found any here. 

Perking up, Mika looked over her shoulder at the door that lay behind her. It was the only room that they hadn't searched yet, it having gotten to dark to see well enough and Daddy hadn't wanted to risk using the flashlights. 

But it was light now, and there could be medicine in there! 

The young girl was cautious as she crawled out of her blue sleeping bag, glancing at her sister who was sleeping soundly. Mika considered walking her up but quickly decided against it. Lizzie was always the strong one, the one who did things and found stuff. Mika wanted to do this by herself and prove that she could be helpful too. 

Peering up at the old, oak door, Mika slowly turned the iron handle, wincing as it creaked lightly. Neither of her family members woke up so she carefully slipped in through the opening. Though not intentionally, the door swung closed behind her. 

The small room looked like an old office. There was a desk and a standing lamp, collecting dust. A large bookcase sat against the outside wall, right beside another door which led outside to provide a private entrance. A few novelty t-shirts hung on hangers around the room, boasting of hunting tournaments or cracking a funny saying. The one across the room had a large bear on it and another one had the words 'squirrel hunter' on it in big, colorful letters. 

Mika slowly began to look around, losing hope that she would find anything in this room. 

She had just begun to open the desk drawers when the distant growls of the monsters caught her ear. She automatically crouched down, hiding behind the large desk, until only her eyes were visible over the top of the wood. They grew closer quickly and only seconds passed before the backdoor burst open. 

A dirty stranger nearly fell through he was moving so fast, the large metal thing on his back catching the door post and stalling his movements. He growled in anger, causing Mika to flinch, as he wrestled with the monsters that were close on his tail. Rotten hands reached forward as he tried to slam the door shut. They were grasping and clawing at him, one managed to get a firm grasp upon his shirt. 

A thick knife, bigger than even the one her dad always carried, was held firmly in his fist and he brought it down a few times, pushing and shoving at the creatures that haunted Mika's dreams. 

A loud tearing could barely be heard over the monsters as the grungy and already hole ridden shirt ripped further. Time seemed to stop as Mika gazed at the man's back. He had a dark tattoo, which Mika's grandma had always warned her not to get as she would regret it later, but the really scary thing was the scars. They weren't like the ones on her knees from when she had learned to ride a bike or like the one her friend Sarah had had after her surgery. These were big and looked like they had really, really hurt. 

She had known what the monsters could do, she had seen it, but she hadn't known someone could live after...that happened. Such a thought terrified the small child, if they had hurt this really big, really scary looking man that how could she even hope to survive without her dad? 

The man got the door shut, breaking Mika from her thoughts, having managed to clear the walkers that had been blocking the door from shutting. He did not even pause to see if the door would hold, instead taking hold of the bookcase and making it crash down in front of the closed barrier. 

“Mika?!” 

Mika's dad shouted from the other room, panic clear in his voice. 

Shrinking further down, warnings of stranger danger echoing clear in her head, Mika watched as the man spun instantly, weapon in hand. He saw her just as the interior door flew open once more to reveal her dad, his own gun held at the ready. 

Her dad paused for a brief moment, looking quickly around the room until he located his daughter. 

“Get behind me.” He ordered, his aim never wavering from the stranger's head. 

Silence then fell, broken only by the snarls of the walkers outside. Neither men saying anything or lowering their weapons for a long pause. Lizzie also appeared, barely revealing herself as she peered into the room with gun drawn. 

“Sorry- didn' know anyone was 'ere.” The stranger finally said, his voice low and gruff. “I ran inta too many of 'em and had ta run.” 

He explained, pointing behind himself and to the door and fallen bookcase while he slowly lowered his weird looking weapon at the same time. 

Mika's daddy said nothing, his fingers tightening around his gun and his eyes narrowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I had a really hard time ending this because I didn't want to get into the 'come with us' conversation. I hope it was okay for you all. Let me know and thanks for waiting so patiently!!


End file.
